


How to Avoid Cannibals, Piranhas and the Cold

by suitesamba



Series: LWS Challenge 15 Bingo [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John keep getting closer - accidentally. But the trip to Aruba isn’t accidental at all - at least not on Sherlock’s part</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Avoid Cannibals, Piranhas and the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Story three in this arc - the first two are Cuffed and Anything for Science, both links to AO3. All my LWS Challenge 15 Trope Bingo stories will be chronological in the same world.

After what they were now calling the “Incident of the Accidental Fellatio,” John had, perhaps unwisely, decided that the next relationship move should be Sherlock’s.

He should have known better.

Sherlock actually had made the last move, if you could call it that. He was the one, wasn’t he, who’d stripped naked in John’s room, positioned himself on John’s bed with sex toy in hand, and devised a scientific assessment of John’s physical reactions to his lewd and unforgivable actions.

And as satisfied as John had been with how _that_ had gone down, he thought Sherlock had a lot to learn about subtlety, and even more about about romance. It wasn’t all about sex, after all.

So, when Sherlock’s next move actually came, John didn’t expect a trip to Aruba.

“Aruba? The island near Venezuela? The Dutch island in the Caribbean? _That_ Aruba?”

Sherlock nodded distractedly, still focused on whatever he was reading on his laptop.

“Why?”

Sherlock looked up.

“I wouldn’t be lying if I said it was for a case. But still, I’d appreciate your company.”

Well, that was – hmmm - _semi_ romantic. Bordering on romantic. On the verge of romantic.

“You’ve taken a case on a tiny Caribbean island?”

Sherlock, who had gone back to studying his laptop, looked up at him again. He did not look romantic. He looked annoyed.

“John, do you want to accompany me or not? I thought you might enjoy a week away from this incessant rain.”

John narrowed his eyes. He closed his own laptop and pushed it aside. “Does this have anything to do with Mycroft’s visit last night?”

Mycroft had arrived while John was upstairs having a private – and rather heated – phone conversation with his sister. By the time John had come back downstairs, Mycroft was folding up a sheaf of papers and returning them to his pocket. He’d looked at John as if he were a rather drab moth pinned to a piece of cardboard, then exited without addressing him directly, these words echoing behind him.

“Eight weeks, Sherlock. You have eight weeks.”

“Yes. He’s a prat and I’d like to get as far away from him as possible.”

“Aruba isn’t as far as – I don’t know – Antarctica.”

“I dislike the cold.”

“Fine. New Zealand.”

“Cannibals. I have a strong predilection against them.”

“The Amazon?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Piranhas.” 

John looked at Sherlock suspiciously

“Alright. Aruba. I get to lie on the beach and drink fruity things served in coconuts and you’re not going to embarrass me in any way or get us in any trouble with local authorities – and embarrassing me would include wearing anything but swimwear to the beach.”

Sherlock grinned at his laptop.

“I’d be a fool to promise that, John.”

ooOoo

John’s big mistake was not researching Aruba adequately before they left.

Researching it at all, actually.

Aside from taking a look at what the weather promised so he could pack appropriately, and glancing at the hotel’s website, he proved his worth as the great Sherlock Holmes’ sidekick by letting Sherlock do all the work.

As it turned out, it was incredibly easy to get married in Aruba. No waiting periods, or registration processes, and if one or more of the prospective spouses was a good deal less than sober, so be it.

Waking up in the same bed as Sherlock wasn’t the surprise. They’d been sleeping together and having a good many accidental hand jobs and frottage and fellatio ever since arriving in Aruba three days before. It wasn’t really John’s fault that he couldn’t reach to get the sunscreen on in the middle of his back, or that Sherlock had to help him, or that the sunscreen made his back so slippery that Sherlock’s fingers slid all the way down into his swimming shorts and onto his arse. Nor could he blame Sherlock for the time he’d stumbled out of bed and headed right for the shower. How was he to know that John was already in the shower when he crowded in against him, still half asleep?

Waking up in the same bed as Sherlock with a horrible hang-over and a gold wedding band on the ring finger of his left hand _was_ a surprise, however.

Walking up _alone_ in said bed with said gold band was a nearly unforgivable affront.

John stared at the ring, blinking to bring it in focus. He took it off and stared at it some more, frowning, then holding it to the light to see the faint inscription on the inside.

The date.

Yesterday’s date, in fact.

He’s _planned_ this all along. Sherlock came to Aruba – with John – and with engraved wedding rings.

He was going to kill the bastard. Or fuck him. Maybe both.

He sat up quickly. The tiny drummer hammering in his head nearly knocked a hole through his skull.

Sherlock was in the shower.

John opened the shower door and went in, on purpose.

He didn’t have to undress. He was already naked.

He was also sporting some healthy morning wood.

He wasted no time in coating his fingers in shower gel and reaching for Sherlock’s arse.

“Oh, good morning, John,” Sherlock said in an artificially cheery voice just before John worked the first finger in.

John grunted. He pushed Sherlock’s head out of the way and let the water hit his forehead. It helped a bit with the headache.

“John?”

He’d progressed rapidly to two fingers and added a third as a quick courtesy before he lined up his cock and sank home.

“John….” Sherlock was breathing hard and grunting. “We haven’t – uhh – discussed pen…penetrative sex.” He anchored his hands on the shower wall and pushed back aggressively against John. “We haven’t decided who’ll bottom, for instance, and….”

“We didn’t discuss getting married either,” grunted out John. “You made that decision. I made this one.”

“But – guh – uh – condom….”

“Both clean. Took your blood last week while you were sleeping.”

“My blood?”

“Accidentally, of course,” John added, sliding out nearly all the way then thrusting in again.

“Right.”

ooOoo

An hour later, they were lounging on the bed in nothing but their pants.

“It doesn’t make it right. You could have asked.”

“What if you’d said no?”

“What if I insist we get the marriage annulled?”

“So you _want_ me to marry Lady Anne Weston?”

John laughed again. This details of Sherlock’s arranged marriage were so ludicrous that he couldn’t quite believe them.

“Alright – see if I get it right this time. Ten years ago, a minor British noble provided you with enough cocaine to last a year in exchange for your promise to marry his daughter if, by the time you were thirty five, neither of you had married. And you signed a contract, in which the cocaine, of course, was never mentioned. And this woman - ”

“Who is a lesbian.”

“Does it matter? You’re one too.”

“A lesbian?”

John rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“This woman,” continued Sherlock, “is insisting on completing the contract as she and her lover would very much like a child, and believe that a sober and quite dashing Sherlock Holmes would provide excellent genetic material.”

“Is that part in the contract?”

“That I’m dashing? No. I take it as a given.”

John punched him on the shoulder. “No, the part about having a child together?”

Sherlock sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. It was _very_ good cocaine, John.”

“So you tricked me into coming to Aruba where the marriage laws are lenient, at best, got me drunk on rum –” 

“Excellent rum. I wouldn’t skimp on something so important.”

John bit back a grin. “Right. On _excellent_ rum, served in a freshly hulled coconut, then hauled my ass off to get married at the convenient twenty-four hour wedding chapel.”

“You seemed very enthusiastic at the time.”

“I was very intoxicated at the time. I was probably enthusiastic about everything except someone taking away my coconut.”

Sherlock smiled. “They let you hold it during the entire ceremony. It was rather endearing with that little pink umbrella.”

“Does Mycroft know?”

“About the umbrella?”

John glared at him. Sherlock sighed.

“Sir Weston approached Mycroft with the contract and Mycroft advised me to get you to marry me as quickly as possible.”

“This was _Mycroft’s_ idea?” John looked vaguely ill.

“Oh – did I say Mycroft? I meant Graham. I mean Gavin.”

“It’s Greg. _Greg_. And stop lying.”

“Fine. Greg.”

John shook his head. “Come here you idiot.”

Sherlock scooted over against him – on purpose – and John wrapped his arms around him – quite intentionally – and their lips touched each other – of their own volition.

“I’m going to get you back for this, you know,” John said. “I think we’ll need formal announcements when we get back. Engraved. You can personally deliver one to Donovan. And a formal wedding photo, taken in Kensington Garden, on a Saturday afternoon.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“We’ll wear matching jumpers.”

Sherlock put a pillow over his head and groaned.

And John grinned and made a mental note to thank Mycroft.


End file.
